


Brownstone

by FreckleMnemo



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreckleMnemo/pseuds/FreckleMnemo
Summary: Time for the queen to attack the rook.
Relationships: Beth Harmon & Benny Watts, Beth Harmon/Benny Watts
Comments: 21
Kudos: 190





	Brownstone

**Author's Note:**

> Possibly a development of my previous fic Aftermath, but it can be read indipendently. Once again, and always, thank you for clicking on this. I hope it will not disappoint. Any feedback is a pleasure!

**1967**

_A Beetle pulls over at a curb at night, its engine evidently, sorely tried. A girl gracefully opens the door from the passenger seat. A young man then emerges from the other side, circled eyes, numb legs. They are both mentally exhausted, and the darkness smells of concrete and take away food._

_She retrieves her suitcase and her coat, then looks ahead of her. It's a brownstone building. Some lights are still on._

_She is immediately drawn to the door in front of her, the most obvious option, and adamantly crosses the open gate and walks the few steps separating her from the knob. The man takes another direction though, slightly on the right. "not that one", he tells her nonchalantly, "this one" and heads downstairs._

_Much puzzled and vaguely disappointed, she turns and slowly, diligently follows him._

**1968**

It's fascinating, perhaps even disturbing at times, how human senses work to put together a context, a setting, in the few moments that separate waking up from actually looking around. Some resonance with reality, some acknowledgement: yes, still alive, with enough oxygen for another day. Sometimes it’s the sting of regret in the churning stomach after a one night stand; or the unfamiliar, formal fragrance of hotel furniture while travelling, or again the reassuring sense of belonging brought by lavender, and cotton sheets, in a family bedroom.

Beth registered many things at once when she woke up in Benny’s bed the morning after landing back from Moscow. To name some, the pillow smelled like his scalp, and Prell shampoo. The linens could have used some laundry, but she was not in the position of complaining, and she was aware of her contribution to the faint scent of sweat. Her ears then registered a bus horn, raindrops and a regular, muffled snoring pace. Her hands and feet felt unnaturally warm; her bare legs weakly stretched, and she noticed a subtle soreness around her groin. A pleasant one, oddly. She instinctively smiled, and every muscle around her dimples complied. Even her cheeks liked him a lot.

Finally, her eyelids opened, and she resisted the urge to chuckle at what she saw. Benny was in a sound sleep, bare chested, face down, a shiny line of drool from his parted lips landing on the distressed pillow. A wave of affection sloshed about from her heart to her brain, and back.

Of all the lessons she was taught at Methuen, one of the most valuable was how to move without making a sound, hiding pills and opinions in a cruel aseptic hush. She collected her clothes and left the room, never ceasing to grin.

It occurred to her that perhaps Benny enjoyed breakfast in bed – only one way to find out.

She locked the door and suddenly every noise got more intense, just as if a pair of sentimental plugs had been removed from her ears with a pop. The drizzle came and went, people were hailing at cabs, and on her right, just about ten steps away, a big boot splashed in a freshly formed puddle. The boot owner cursed twice under his breath in some Eastern European language – maybe Czech, or perhaps Polish? _Nevermind_ , She rolled her eyes. _Who am I kidding, a smattering of Russian doesn’t make me a fucking expert in Slavic languages_ , she admitted to herself. What she knew for sure, though, is that the man was a mover: he was just about to carry an armchair while walking backwards to the van, when he saw her and stumbled. He was followed by another stout workman, lifting a bedside table, panting. “’Need anything, miss?”  
“No, not really, thanks. Someone’s moving out, I guess.”  
The man with the armchair produced a somehow bitter grimace. “I wish”, he muttered. "Some old folk. Very lonely. A widower, no relatives. Must have died alone a week ago." Beth stared at him with ill-concealed shock, shifting her weight from foot to foot, and the other man noticed her discomfort. "yeah miss, it's this city. Eighteen million souls and not one to give a damn about you until you're rotting"  
And suddenly, a cold, boilerplate eulogy was summoned from some dusty drawer of memories.

 _I didn’t know William Scheibel, but I’m told he was not a religious man, so much as a solitary man. He performed his duties quietly, and diligently._  
Beth could distinctly hear him saying what to do: time for the queen to attack the rook.  
“This place. Who is managing the sale?”

∽

"You bought a house."

"An apartment, really."

"You go out to get yourself some breakfast and you come back with a house."

"And breakfast. For the both of us. Here, I don't really know what you like in the morning, save for sex and eggs. How do you feel about bagels?"

"And not just a fucking house, the one next to mine."

"Well, bagel it is anyway. And coffee's on. Help yourself"

"Beth."

"It's a stable investment. Better than gambling or shoe shopping.” Some lip biting. She had rehearsed this line and it didn't sound as ridiculous in her head. "Besides, I can always sublet it."

"Uh-uh. Sure you will."

They moved to the kitchen, and Beth filled two cups of fresh coffee before handing one to Benny.

"Just out of curiosity, which one did you buy first, the house or the bagels?"

"I figured New York would never run out of bagels. I prioritized", she answered pragmatically. Then she quickly, quietly added, "and it's a big city after all. It's nice to know your neighbour beforehand"

Benny looked at her affectionately and raised his cup with a smirk. "a toast to my new neighbour, then."

**1969**  
  


In April, her house in Lexington became Harmon Lodge, a home for unwed mothers.

In June, her brownstone apartment in New York had a walk-in closet and two toothbrushes in a glass above the bathroom sink.


End file.
